


It All Started With The Dovahkiin

by MyTricksterHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aedra (Elder Scrolls), Angst and Humor, Asexual Character, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, Dark Comedy, Elder Scrolls Lore, Gen, Hero Complex, Magic, Minor Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, The Old Gods (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24535735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyTricksterHeart/pseuds/MyTricksterHeart
Summary: Cayliss is always searching for the next great journey, so she set out to fulfill her promise to her dead friend; to find the lands that have been hidden away from Nirn and even the Gods since time innumerable. Now trapped in a brand new world for the forseeable future, what's a Dragonborn to do but explore, experience, and shake things up a little.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	1. Arrival

Nirn 4E 222

Planetos 296 AC

The Narrow Sea, Near the Stepstones

The gentle rocking and swaying that she feels is the first indication that reality has reasserted itself. The second sign is the unmistakable sound of seagulls squawking above, grating at her already frayed nerves and furthering the horrible ache within her skull.

Ever so slowly she opens her eyes to the world, wincing at the brightness and groaning to herself at the soreness of her body. Forcing herself to sit up against the large wooden mast, Cayliss gazes out at the empty deck of her ship, furrowing her brow when she doesn't see her crew. It takes nothing more than a cursory glance to know that the waters that surround her galleon, Fortuna, are unfamiliar; completely foreign. She knows this like she knows the sun beaming down on her, attempting to burn her pale skin is not Magnus, the wound that gives light and magic to Nirn, but a construct, a great sphere of flame.

Even the air is different. It smells and tastes so strange she thinks to herself, smacking her lips at the peculiar palette on her tongue, and wriggling her nose at the scents she picks up.

This place tastes tangy and smells like suffering, Cayliss concludes. A mad smile blooms on her face and she giggles like a child, ignoring the throbbing pain it causes within her skull. She's done it. Gripping the blue shards attached to the necklace around her throat, she knows without a doubt she is in a new realm, a new world waiting to be explored, and she's the first child of Nirn to step foot here. Looking at the shards that contain the remnants of her oldest friend and pseudo big brother, she whispers with happy tears in her eyes, "I did it Leaper; I found the place you hid away, the place you forgot".

The Breton woman sets and basks in the evening light of the new world while holding onto her friend until she can't postpone the situation any longer. There is no sign of her dour faced crew or her ever stern Captain. She's aware that if they were on this ship then her men would already be hard at work darting to and fro like dutiful worker bees or sitting out of the way and patiently awaiting orders. Captain Mallevic would be at the helm shouting orders and calling the crew "miserable excuses for sailors much less Kyn", and turning his crimson gaze on any of his fellow dremora he thinks isn't working quickly or efficiently enough. The fact that these events aren't occurring lends credence to the insidious thought in the back of her mind; that her ever loyal men didn't make it through the incident that brought her here.

Originally she set sail to confirm the existence of the 'gate' that she theorized existed at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts. In her elation at possibly being one step closer to discovering the lands she once promised Leaper she would find, it slipped her mind to grab a Master mage or two just in case the mystical gateway that is so old it's measured in Kalpas not eras prove to be too much for her particular brand of magical know-how. She would come to regret that; in fact she's regretting it right now, as she searches through Fortuna and calls out for her men.

Cayliss had multiple chances to turn back on her journey to the source that had been calling out to her every night for weeks, robbing her of sleep but lighting a familiar fire in her chest; the 'Wanderer Spirit' her Grandfather used to say. Her journey brought her to a portion of the Sea of Ghosts that appeared like any other, but the heavy pressure of magic that bore down on her signaled that she was exactly where she was meant to be. Cayliss knows she should've turned back then and there and made a return with a team of experts, but then the colossal dreugh monster reared and its ugly head, and acted really strange. It acted as though it was defending something, so after slaying the damn thing the now intrigued Dovahkiin decided to see just what it was protecting to make it act like an enraged mother bear. Casting the water breathing spell she swam straight down toward the source of magic and discovered a horde of dreugh guarding what appeared to be ancient ruins surrounding a huge arch made of some kind of unbreakable mud and hidden by illusion magic.

Deciding she had seen enough and didn't have any desire to fight an army of rabid dreugh in their element, under water, she swam back to the surface and onto her ship not noticing the haunting glow of the shards around her neck. Once Cayliss' feet were steady on the deck of her ship it happened. She felt a pull and then everything began to rip itself apart and then reform over and over again; her ship, her crew, herself. The surroundings became nonexistent and unbelievably bright, and for a moment she was among the stars of Aetherius, so close she could reach out and touch the wounds. Then nothing; her vestige, her soul, left behind her body to travel through this strange cold nothing. Now she's here running through every room on the Fortuna in desperate search for a sign of life, but with every empty room it makes it harder for Cayliss to ignore the reality of the situation.

She truly hopes that whatever happened to bring her here only sent them back to Oblivion and didn't destroy them completely. If they are truly dead or worse, unmade, then the fault is mine and mine alone for being so foolhardy she thinks in condemnation.

Stopping in her quarters she plops down in her chair, setting her head on her desk with a great drawn out sigh.

"Oblivion take me, me and my damn arrogance. Still such a fool after all this time eh?" Cayliss ridicules herself with old familiarity.

Turning her head she gazes at the image in the mirror attached to the wall, grimacing at the redness of her skin no doubt cause by this world's strange sun. The face that stares back at her looks far too young and youthful for the forty two years she has lived, and it always awakens the old worry that she's no longer aging, that she'll outlive her friends and her children. Dragonborn are by no means immortal, but have their ever been any who have absorbed as many dragon souls as she has? Miraak comes to mind but he just adds to her worry; he was thousands of years old after all. Pushing those thoughts back to the deep pits of her minds the woman observes her familiar image.

The large dark brown eyes that she inherited from her Bosmer father are possibly the only features that displays her age. She also inherited the high cheekbones and pale skin typical of Bretons too. Her short wild brown hair is even messier than usual, still filled with the pearls, beads, bird feathers, and other odd trinkets she ties into it. It was something her Father would do for her every morning when she was young, and she continued the morning ritual after her parents disappeared and left her with her loving but sickly Grandfather.

Her slender jawline, smooth skin, soft features, and the splattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks ensured she was never lacking in allure, and had attracted a certain kind of attention to her all her life. It's certainly been a boon when she needs to charm and persuade, but she often laments her beauty. Cayliss isn't sure if she is even capable of feeling attraction or desire, and romance is something she's only thought of a handful of times. An image of teasing fanged smiles, pretty crimson eyes, and milky white skin play out within her mind, bringing a soft smile to her face.

With a put upon sigh Cayliss decides that leisure time is over; it's time to figure out a way to either get this ship moving or find some other way to reach land. At least land is close enough for me to walk there if I must, she thinks. Going by the horde of seagulls and the pattern of the waves at least, land should be within sight just a little further south. From there she'll start planning out what she's going to do and how to get in contact with her children, a mage that could figure out a way she can return, preferably her friend the Archmage Katja of the College of Winterhold, and the Emperor.

Walking over to the her personal armory she replaces her glass sword with one of the masterpieces her daughter Grashla forged for her with the Skyforge; a short-sword made from common steel but made so perfect it borders on divine work. Cayliss couldn't be more proud of her or her work if she tried. Grabbing a magicka potion and downing the horrible concoction, she lays her hand over her irritating burns and lets the soft gold glow sooth them. Walking back up to the deck of her ship she holds out her palm and prepares herself. Cayliss tries to conjure a simple dremora but nothing happens, she doesn't even feel a pull. Reaching out further she tries again and again, only to fail again and again. Her best result was when she summoned a lowly skamp, and at first she thought she failed again only to hear the creature's heavy breathing. Looking down at the best result of her conjuring, the Breton woman puts her head in her hands and resists the urge to scream in frustration.

This world is making it harder to conjure anything she concludes. Testing out other spells she discovers they work perfectly fine and come as easy as they always have, but Conjuration is really tricky here, different, she thinks. Cayliss can see the way the wind is blowing; her journey will most likely be on foot seeing as she can't even summon a single deadra, much less a crew of them to sail her ship, not until she can figure out the nuances of conjuring here. Trying one more time out of childish defiance she's surprised when a familiar dremora butler appears before her.

"Ah Madam Cayliss, it's grand to see you again, did you have need of me my lady?" He greets her pleasantly.

"Vo?"

"Yes Madam?"

The Breton stares for a moment in confusion before replying. "I didn't mean to summon you Vo, but it's good that you're here."

Cayliss informs Vo of the situation and the details leading up to it, and gives him three messages to pass on; one to her children, one to the Archmage, and one to the Emperor. Vo takes in her words like a sponge before looking around in wonder, then brings his wide eyed gaze back to her. "The things you get up to Madam Cayliss", the daedra whispers mostly to himself.

The comment brings back the manic smile that crawls up her cheeks. "I know, isn't it great?"

"Great? As you say Ma'am, but often times terrible too. Let's hope this adventure is only the former my lady." He speaks in that way that tells Cayliss he's remembering one of those times when she conjured him in the middle of battles, needing a particular weapon or artifact from him.

"At any rate Madam, I shall follow your directions to the letter and deliver your messages. Not that there was ever any doubt of course. Farewell my lady." And like that he disappears in a swirl of black and purple, leaving Cayliss satisfied that her absence won't be unexplained, and leaving her to ponder on whether her butler Vo made that pun on purpose.

Seeing as how she doesn't have a crew to sail Fortuna, Cayliss supposes she'll have to walk, but she refuses to just leave it out in the open vulnerable to plundering. Fortuna was a gift from the Empire and its Emperor after all; a true masterwork built and designed by master craftsman and made beautiful by brilliant artist. What makes it truly valuable though is the plethora of wards and enchantments that were placed and sometimes built into the ship by many of Tamriel's most accomplished mages, including her friend Katja.

She could sail for a decade and still find knew functions and features to these enchantments, but there is one in particular that is invaluable. Touching her hand to the wood she allows her magicka to reach out and touch a 'magical switch' for the lack of better term for it, and immediately the water around her ship raise and move away, and Fortuna begins descending down into the ocean. The Dovahkiin cast the waterwalking spell and calmly waits for her ship to descend enough so that she can step off into the water. With her ship hiding underneath the deep blue and waiting for her return, Cayliss begins her journey across the waves lapping at her boots towards the nearest land. Excited despite the circumstances leading up to here, she's bouncing with her stride and grinning like the Mad God himself for the new chance at another unbelievable adventure.


	2. First Impressions Are Important

The journey was relatively mundane as Cayliss made her way to the island and its shores she saw in the distance. Don't misunderstand, its surreal and exciting to be in another world entirely, but so far the only sights she has seen while striding across the water are pretty common sights in any ocean on Nirn, with glittering blue waves, leaping dolphins, and the spray of whales. The only real break from the monotony is the ships she has seen from afar, coming and going. The ships are oddly familiar; their appearance reminds the brunette of Redguard Galleys and Imperial Galleons, at least in their design and shape. Their flags and flair are rather foreign.

She spotted a few that are dissimilar to the others, appearing to have larger holds that you would see on cargo ships, but they bring to her mind Imperial prison ships instead. Cayliss hopes that they are just cargo or prison ships, because they certainly wouldn't make for decent smuggling vessels, too bulky and slow, so the alternative was something much darker.

Besides all that, it wasn't the ships that made the Breton feel giddy like a child, no it was the people on the ships. While she couldn't make out any details, she could clearly see two legged two armed figures laboring on those crafts, and for just a moment Cayliss had a mind to climb aboard to introduce herself to the inhabitants of this world. Then her common sense returned and she discarded the idea as more of her usual eager foolishness. Even if she could understand this new race of man, mer, or something else altogether, she doubted they would appreciate her boarding their ship.

Assuring herself that contact would happen sooner or later, she continued on her merry way, whistling and humming with a bouncing gait as she moved nearer to the sandy shores. When the foamy tide under feet became rocky grey sand she stopped to decide on her next course of action, and quickly came to the conclusion that she doesn't really have a plan here. She's essentially just waiting for her messages to be delivered, so with no real direction she decides to do some exploring, and if a coherent plan forms from her trek across the island then all the better.

I do have that sort of luck after all.

Paying special attention to the flora and fauna she comes across, she's finds herself disappointed that she hadn't thought to bring her journal to put her thoughts and observations into words, give them some permanence. Travelling across the landscape Cayliss concludes that while her surroundings aren't majestic, pretty, or exotic, they do tell a story; the kind that sings to her curiosity. This land has known a lot of bloodshed and misery, she can feel it in her blood, in her bones, and can smell it in the wind. The soil is mostly rocky grey dirt and sand with segments of tall almost lifeless grass, and it is utterly littered with old arrowheads, rusted swords of so many different makes, and old armor segments with some still attached to corpses and skeletons.

Oh yes, this place has known suffering, enough to permanently scar the land.

Cayliss nods at her conclusion and proceeds to move forward eager to find more tales.

Xxx

The Dovah without wings gets her wish when after trekking over one of the diminutive rocky hills that she hesitates to call a mountain, on account of their size, she see's black smoke in the distance, and makes out the sound of screaming both far and close. Cayliss can makes a few educated guesses on what's happening, but either way it's clear that some form of conflict is happening, because of course there is.

With a put upon sigh she starts sprinting toward the nearest signs of activity, and quickly climbs up and conceals herself in the nearest tree when she detects the pounding of feet. A young girl comes into view and into the clearing, breathing heavily and looking around in a state of panic and terror. Cayliss tries hard to not to be disappointed, but partially fails. She supposes her expectations were too high, but once again she was expecting a race more exotic and vastly different than the baseline. From what she can tell she the girl is human with warm brown skin, dark hair, dark eyes; with features not dissimilar to Imperials.

The girl is obviously either poor or comes from a primitive people, judging by the tattered looking rags she wears.

Either way Cayliss takes the time to watch her as she looks for a place to hide and decides to seek refuge in the split of a tree across from me just as a group of people rush into the clearing and begin searching. It's a group of eight; all men and of the races of men, but with drastically different appearances. Some are pale white with blue and odd violet eyes, and their hair is shades of blonde, with one of them so light it might be better described as white or silver. The others have dusky skin tones and either dark hair or strangely dyed hair. None of them are wearing armor save for a few wearing leathers, and they wear clothes that suggest they're either sailors or pirates. Still Cayliss elects to reserve judgment until she knows more of these people and the situation on the island.

It's frustrating that she can't understand them as they swagger about and callout for the girl they are obviously searching for, all in that strange tongue of theirs. She should be able to fix that rather quickly if given the opportunity, but for now she moves further back along the tree like a serpent as the men get closer to both her and the girls position. Cayliss almost jumps out of the tree on instinct when the girl is pulled from her hidey-hole and the man calls out for his friends. She grits her teeth and sword in frustration as the rags girl struggles with all her strength to get away, all while screaming out for what she assumes is help. The girl is obviously young and untrained but still she fights with a ferocity that Cayliss admires, leaving the man with a bloody nose, a black eye, and many scratches across his face.

The Breton woman smiles, oddly proud at the damage the raggedy girl has inflicted on the silver haired man. The man who is bleeding isn't quite so amused or with his men laughing at him, so he smashes his fist across the poor girls face and smacks the back of her head against the tree. Cayliss' smile disappears and she tells herself over and over that this isn't Tamriel, she doesn't know enough of the circumstances to intervene. She saw no reason for such harsh treatment toward the girl, but with her on the ground and no longer fighting back she hoped the men would scoop her up and be on their way. She hoped they were after her to arrest her for theft or something, or maybe to take hostage for some war or dispute. The Dovahkiin watches her naïve hopes to turn to ash when the shiny silver man begins tearing at the girl's rags and the other men start reaching for their breeches.

I know enough now, Cayliss decides grimly, her face scrunched up in a snarl.

It wouldn't matter if these beasts were the Kings of this island my decision would be the same.

With a silent drop behind the man closest to her, she pulls her short-sword free from her hip and decapitates him in a blinding fast motion, moving behind the next before his body even hits the ground. With a harsh stomp behind the second man's knee, it snaps and he kneels down and lets out an agony filled surprised scream, alerting the beasts in the clearing of the killer in their midst. Not hesitating for a moment she drives the blade into the kneeling man's throat while pulling the steel dagger from her belt and throwing it past the other men and into the silver haired bastard's surprised face. With the would be raper dead, the girl weakly slides out from under him and crawls behind the trees.

The remaining five look at the Breton woman stunned and Cayliss just casually pulls her sword from the gargling man's throat, spraying herself with blood, and points it at them in challenge. They hesitate so she spreads her arms out and grins mockingly at them, the intent easily interpreted, causing the men to begin throwing insults in their language, and two of them rush her. She easily glides under the first man's strike and with a twist of her wrist disarms him, quite literally, before spinning around his body. His ally beside him tries to follow Cayliss' blurring movement but he never really had a chance, and by the time he's turned around to look her in the face her blade is already between his ribs. Snatching the saber from his hand in time to twist and dodge the strike at her back; finding an enemy in front of her, one to the left of her, and one rushing to join them.

With both of them swinging at her from different angles Cayliss dives between the two blades and rolls forward in front of the man coming to his ally's aid, before stabbing the saber through his stomach. Spinning on her heel she parries the slash aimed low driving the man's blade into the dirt, and then stomps the blade out of his hands. The man's form bends trying hard to not let go of his sword and he lifts his head in time to see Cayliss' foot collide with his face, the impact harshly sending him into the soil. Turning around slowly to look at the man currently clutching his sword in front of him and practically shaking in his boots, the Breton gives a smile before making a jerking motion at him and shouting "boo". He sprints away as if a horde of daedra are on his tail, and the Dragonborn simply lifts her leg and pulls the dagger from her leather boot. Taking aim and flinging the blade through the air like an arrow, it flies true and passes through the cowards neck and out his throat. Cayliss simply nods and smiles at the predictable but satisfying result.

With that settled the brunette walks over to the man down an arm, who's leaning against a tree and sobbing, weakly clutching his stump as he flirts with unconsciousness. She ends his life unceremoniously with a quick drag of her sword across his gullet, and walks over to the lone survivor. It's clear he's hardly aware of anything at the moment; he must feel like a smith took their hammer to his head. Digging through her satchel Cayliss pulls out a tiny vial filled with a white substance with flecks of purple, and crouches over the man. She pulls his mouth open and pours the foul liquid down his throat, and watches as his body seizes up before going stone still. The only movement he can manage is moving those disorientated eyes laced with a bit of panic and confusion.

A paralysis potion should buy me enough time to do what I need to do twice over.

Laying a palm over his head she closes her eyes and brings all of her focus on the spell she attempting. Remembering her friend Katja's lectures she reaches to the basic formation of the man's mind, careful to avoid spreading her focus and getting them both lost inside his head, she parses through it like a needle through thread. When she finally finds the knowledge she's seeking, Cayliss repeats to herself that this man's knowledge is her own. Makes it truth within her heart; the language he learned and the memories of speaking them are her own, not his, hers. She continues the process until she tricks herself and the world into belief, and then she speaks a completely foreign tongue as if it's her mother tongue.

"Did it work?" Cayliss asks herself in a strange flowing language. She smiles when she answers her own question. "Archmage Katja certainly deserves her title", the Breton declares with appreciation for her friend's genius. Katja had told her that the spell wasn't perfect by any means, and would need a lot of work before she would be willing share it with rest of the magical community, and that she wishes the spell was less invasive and potentially dangerous to the caster and recipient. She had originally designed it to be a memory viewing spell, but after some testing had concluded it can only be safely used on animals, otherwise the user could potentially be lost in the other person's memories with no escape. Eventually Katja had repurposed it into a spell that gives you basic knowledge of something that person would learn during early formative years, like language, and it became a translation spell. Katja used it to great effect to speak to giants, goblins, ogres, and even Falmer.

I've always considered myself a clever person, but my Nord friend never ceases to amaze her.

With that out of the way she puts her blade through the man's heart and moves over to where the rags girl was last seen, finding her lying still a few yards from the clearing that she hid in. Rolling her over carefully the Breton woman gets her first good look at the girl and immediately notices just how young she really is.

Just a child truly, younger than any of my own. Maybe twelve or thirteen.

She's covered in soot and bruises, with a large cut on her forehead, and she's a little too lean to be healthy. Seeing her body exhale and inhale and after checking her pulse, she concludes that while the girl's breathing and heartbeat is weak, it's relatively steady. The girl's weakness as well as the labored breath is likely due to inhaling smoke into her lungs then the exertion she went through to flee.

Reaching into her satchel she pulls out a bottle filled with red liquid, a standard health potion to be honest, and gently coaxes the girl's mouth open and pours it down her throat in a light stream; rubbing her esophagus to prevent her choking. When the girl has downed a good third of the bottle and her more superficial wounds are healed, Cayliss places the potion back into her satchel and places her hands on the skin where the girl's lungs would be underneath, and focuses the familiar faint golden light into her hands. With an image of the lungs in her head the Breton places complete focus on her task and steadily repairs the damage. She makes sure to take her patient's age into consideration and tries to take it slow while cajoling her body to naturally help the process. Little by the little her breathing evens out until Cayliss is sure that other than the exhaustion and obvious malnutrition, she has a reasonably clean bill of health.

As for the exhaustion and malnutrition; both can be solved with some good rest and regular meals.

The Dovahkiin looks to the distance where the black smoke is swirling insidiously in the sky and decides that she's going to investigate just as soon as she finds somewhere to hide the girl away. Grabbing her hand rag from her satchel she wipes away the soot from the girl's face and starts to remove her vest. The child's clothes were torn in such a way as to leave her chest on display, so Cayliss gently maneuvers her to place the vest on her and preserve her modesty. "Poor thing, she can't be older than twelve or thirteen", she whispers under her breath before shaking her head in disgust at both this world and her own. Picking the light girl up she continues on her way in search of a safe haven for the child in her arms, and then to possibly find the source of the black smoke.

Perhaps, Cayliss thinks with more than a little bloodlust, I'll even find more of the dead men's friends, and find out if they are just as lacking in honor as these loathsome worms.


	3. Destinations Are Trouble

Finding a safe place to hide the unconscious child in her arms didn’t take nearly as long as Cayliss thought it would. Shortly after searching the island as the land changes from hilly and rocky, to heavily forested and bog-like, she stumbled onto the site of stone ruins slowly sinking into the wet soil. Knowing just how dangerous old ruins can be back in Tamriel, Cayliss sits the girl against the entrance’s archway and creeps forward to scout for the usual traps and/or threats. 

From what she can tell, there doesn’t appear to be any signs that indicate trouble; no empty coffins lying around meaning undead or necromancers, no camp or lookouts to suggest brigands, not even the horrible buzzing sounds that warn you a spriggan has claimed the area. 

Still, the Breton can’t shake the idea that’s she’s being watched, that danger is close, so she decides to climb atop the crumbling stone walls surrounding the ruins to get a better view and test something out. Even with a higher perspective there isn’t any hint at the danger she feels, but her instincts have kept her alive through too much for her to dismiss them now. Holding her hand out and calling her magic to her palm, she cast the Detect Life spell and gives the ruins and its grounds another look over. 

At first she thinks maybe something is interfering with the spell, but then Cayliss looks down below at her unconscious companion and can clearly see the glowing wisp that marks her, but that just makes the woman more wary than before. If she can see the faint magicka in the girl, then why is the spell not marking the fauna that should be everywhere in these ruins? Cayliss ponders. 

_Something has scared off the other animals._

The Dovahkiin goes still as death when out of the corner of her eye she sees the wispy mark attached to the creature crouched atop the pillar, beside and above her. Cayliss recognizes the behavior of a predator stalking its prey, and knows its attack is coming the second she moves, so without delay she throws herself backwards off the wall avoiding its pounce and its vicious claws by mere inches. Rolling nimbly across the ground and back to her feet, she has enough time to register the menacing growl and the beast leaping down at her face, and on instinct ducks under its body, before spinning around to prepare for another attack. 

With a few yards between them, Cayliss has a moment to take note of just what is attacking her, and makes a list in her head to devise a plan. The first thing she notices is that it is feline and about the size of a lion, maybe larger, and the second is its pitch black fur and dull white stripes. Its body is powerful, but lean and obviously agile, and covered in old scars; many of them appear to have been caused by blades. Watching the beast carefully as it stays low to the ground and slowly circles around her, she surmises that this is the feline’s territory. And going by those scars and the missing eye, it has fought long and hard to claim this tract of land and protect its claim, Cayliss concludes.

A plan starts to brew in her mind, one that can turn this to her advantage, and she rotates slowly with the creatures movements while locking her red-brown eyes on its lone emerald eye. Without making any abrupt movements the Breton shifts her body and its bearing, and uses it and her eyes to convey a certain message to the prowling feline in front of her; I am strong too, I’m not your prey, I don’t want to fight, I only seek shelter. 

Cayliss exerts as much effort as she can on those simple thoughts, and communicating them correctly to the graceful predator; not with words, but with the silent dialogue that animals instinctively use to convey ideas. The feline never pauses but she knows that it is considering her. If she wasn’t accustomed to the large and unpredictable beasts of Skyrim, and Tamriel as a whole to be honest, she would never have seen the attack coming, or been fast enough to evade it. 

_I said I wasn’t its prey, now it wants me to prove it._

Spinning around to face the beast, she pulls one of the daggers from her waist lighting quick to slash across the paw reaching for her side, and skirts around it to avoid another pounce. Now more weary than before, the feline and the dragon circle each other around the ruined courtyard, preparing for the next bout. The Breton changes her stance to better suit the bog land she stands atop, and the enemy she faces. She lightens the press of her feet to prevent them from sinking into the mud, and prepares the balls of feet to keep her movement swift. This is starting to remind me of my time in Black Marsh, she thinks with a small amused smirk. 

There is no sound to signal the beast’s attack, just a blur of black fur coming for Cayliss’ legs, and she has to quickly skirt around it to avoid its monstrous teeth. The Breton drives the pommel of her dagger into the side of its head, making the creature yowl and lash out with its paw, and she punishes that with a slash across it limb. They separate again, and Cayliss can tell the animal is reassessing her, realizing the danger she poses to it. 

The Dovahkiin hopes the damage she’s caused is enough, but unfortunately she knows it isn’t. The beast is too proud, she thinks.

Over and over it attacks; it attempts to bite chunks out her and disembowel her with its claws, and she easily evades the assaults while returning her own. She cuts across its face, its limbs, and all over its body, and it still keeps coming back with fury and deadly intent, completely relentless. The beast can barely stand, it’s cut up limbs barely able to support its body, and still it refuses to yield. Cayliss practically pleads with both her body and eyes for it to stop and live. She doesn’t want to kill this proud, unbending, and storied creature, that’s completely undaunted even with its death so close. 

“Just stop and listen to me you big stubborn fucking pussycat” She hisses between gritted teeth.

Its single green eye dares her to end its life, and its body goes taut, cluing the Breton woman in to what’s coming. The beast knows it’s going to die and still it shows nothing but defiance, raring for one more go, one last show of pride and audacity. Most predators would have fled to live another day, but not this one. Its behavior is so unusual, so humanlike, Cayliss thinks, it reminds her of the Nords of Skyrim, and even herself. Blowing the dark brown bangs out of her face, she prepares herself for the feline’s last act, trying not to think about what a waste this is.

“If this is how is it’s going to be.” Cayliss whispers under her breath while flipping her dagger around.

The proud thing takes off with as much speed as it can manage, its breath ragged and body trembling under the strain, and just as it goes to leap the ground beneath starts to give way. Panicking it jumps, or more accurately throws its body, away from the collapsing earth. The collapse occurs in a straight path leading straight to Cayliss, and she quickly back pedals but nearly falls underneath the courtyard when her foot travels straight down through the soil and what feels like weak stone. Catching herself from falling below into what looks like a tunnel system, the Breton swings up into the stable soil in a kneeling pose, and looks over at the tired over-sized cat lying in the mud. 

The creature tries to get up and continue the fight, but she doesn’t give it the chance. Plucking her dagger from the ground, she stabs it into the its paw, nailing it to the earth, and pulls another from the grey sash around her waist. Cayliss stomps on its leg to break it, and when it roars in pain she drives her knee into its chest, stealing away its breath. Climbing atop the feline, she catches the paw aimed at her face and pushes her blade straight through, before pulling it out and bringing the pommel down between its eyes. The Breton woman puts the dagger to its throat and stares down into its emerald eye, and with every drop of the Bosmer blood inside her veins, and her connection to Y’ffre and Kynareth, she attempts to deliver her message with no words.

She knows the moment it reads her intent, and removes herself from its chest to sit in the mud beside it. A laugh bubbles out of her at the series of recent events, and the animal looks at her strangely while weakly trying to life its body up. Cayliss thinks about the fight the cat just gave her and tries to remember a time she met such a willful creature, before realizing this beast is easily the most stubborn she’s come across. _Even Syl, my sabre cat, wasn’t ornery enough to fight me to near death, just to be willing to hear me out._ Cayliss shakes her head at the thought.

She hasn’t thought of Syl in sometime, perhaps trying to forget the pain of losing such a loyal and loving companion. If Syl was here a lot of this mess wouldn’t have happened, she thinks ruefully. Unfortunately she died in the second Great War, defending her from one of the Dominion’s greatest assassins while she slept. 

Shaking her head to rid herself of the heavy thoughts, the Breton reaches out and begins to slowly heal the wounds she inflicted with the soft golden glow of her hands. It, no he, watches her warily at first until the soothing nature of the healing spell causes his mind and body to relax; then he looks at Cayliss with curiosity. When her work is done she stands and walks over to the unconscious child still lying on a soft bed of grass, waiting for her return, and the cat trails behind her.

The Dovahkiin picks her up and walks into the only intact structure amongst the ruins. She’s surprised when the feline walks in front of her, before looking back and signaling her to follow with his eye. It leads her through small corridors and rooms with sure steps, avoiding the ones reduced to rubble or flooded. Cayliss has to summon all of her willpower to not sit the girl down immediately, and go exploring and studying every detail. The feline she’s trailing goes to great lengths to dissuade her adventurous impulses by letting out cute annoyed growls when she starts lagging behind to stare at things, and just generally acts all grumpy when she doesn’t appear the least bit threatened, amuse by his impatience. 

They go deeper and deeper into the complex until its pitch black, and she has to cast Nighteye to keep traversing without tripping over everything. As they go Cayliss continues to keep her guard up and watch for threats, but only grows more surprised at each empty corridor they travel through and each benign room they pass. Where the hell is the danger, she thinks with furrowed brows. 

_It's definitely strange that there hasn't been a single trap in these ruins, unless of course you count naturally occurring ones. There's been no goblins, Minotaur, skeletons, or even some rabid skeevers ready to jump out and make things interesting. It's baffling, and honestly, a little boring._

When the black furred beast finally stops leading, they’re standing in a large chamber obviously claimed by him, what with the bones and other remains of its kills scattered around the room. Cayliss can see the many old beds scattered around, but she doesn’t really trust them, so she sits the girl against the wall, and gathers all the blankets off the beds. They are obviously old, dust ridden, and full of holes, but they will do for now. Tapping into her well of Restoration knowledge, she purifies the blankets to the best of her ability to ride them of any poison or disease, and just to make sure she summons a small flame to palm and runs her hand quickly over the materials. 

Better singed than full of sickness, Cayliss figures.

This small flame is about as much she can manage when it comes to Destruction magic. Her magic has never been very flashy or all powerful, instead being more subtle and practical. Restoration and Illusion magic is what she’s always excelled at, and Destruction is her antithesis. Spells in the schools of Destruction have a tendency to blow up in her face, and that is meant in a literal sense. _When I was still young just this simple flame would have gotten out of hand and probably turned the blankets into ash, and likely caught something else on fire._ An amused smile crawls onto her face at the memories.

With the blankets prepared she sets them down in a corner of the room, and makes a bed for the girl to sleep on. When she sets the child down into the mound of covers she lets out a pitiful whimper and calls out “mama”. Cayliss runs her hand through her hair and gently shushes her until her body relaxes and she returns to the land of dreams. Seeing a candlestick lying nearby, she snatches it up and cast the Magelight spell into her palm, before placing it atop the brass object, where the candle would go. 

Now with a place to rest and a light source should she wake while she’s gone, the Breton turns her attention to the oversized housecat relaxing in one of the beds, and watching her intently. Locking eyes with him, she conveys her want for him to protect the girl, with the offer of bringing him something to feast on, and nods in satisfaction when she’s sure they’ve reached an accord. 

When she prepares to leave, she stops at the doorway before turning around and looking at the feline. “You need a name don’t you? I can’t just keep thinking of you as that big damn cat now can I?” Cayliss questions the disinterested beast too busy licking its paw to look at her. “How about Rislav? He was supposedly a stubborn bastard too.” The newly name predator continues bathing itself with disinterest, and Cayliss claps her hands together and smiles from ear to ear. “Great! So glad you agree. I have to go now Rislav, so don’t eat my ward there and I’ll try to bring you back a boar or something.” She replies to his unresponsive gaze in an enthusiastic sing song tone.

Xxx

Travelling past the bog lands and heading toward her original destination, before she got sidetracked from rescuing damsels and fighting cats, the land quickly becomes open grassland and a plethora of narrow rivers. Cayliss speeds up her journey by simply speaking the words Wuld Nah Kest, and blurring across the earth until she finally reaches her target. A burned down village next to a large river is what awaits her. 

A long line of burnt huts and blackened and broken hovels dot the area, as well as corpses. From the bodies around her, it seems likely that more of those men she encountered from before attacked this place and either killed or captured the inhabitants of this place. The Breton notes that very few of the dead villagers are women, and the general attire of the attackers hint at pirates. This is beginning to look more and more like a slave raid. Cayliss thinks grimly.

_The signs are all there._

She sifts through the ash and remains, taking things that may be useful for later. The Breton is shocked when searching through a collapsed hovel and a charred corpse’s chest moves. At first she thought it like one of the ash spawn of Solstheim, but after the not-corpse neglects to get up and attack, she evaluates it and discovers a survivor instead. Barely clinging to life, Cayliss quickly pulls out a health tonic and pours the whole bottle down the persons throat, and afterword does all she can to heal her. She breathes a sigh of relief when the person actually starts looking like one instead of overcooked horker meat, and the deadly vapors inside her lungs come swirling out of her mouth and nose. 

After she nearly exhausts her magicka trying to heal her as efficiently and quickly as possible, the form reveals itself to be a young woman with the same brown skin as the girl from before. With the knowledge that the umber woman is stable but going to need more treatment, Cayliss uses two of the quilts she found and some rope to bundle her up and tie her to the Bretons back. Needless to say, it’s rather awkward, considerably more so because the island girl is much bigger than her, and Cayliss is a rather small slender woman besides. Deciding that she’s searched and looted all there is, she decides to follow some of those tracks she saw on her way here. 

_Maybe there are more survivors to be found._

Scoffing, Cayliss mutters under her breath. “More damsels to save more like.” Shaking her head, the Dragonborn decides to get on with it and begins walking away from the ravaged village.

Xxx

After a bit of travel she sets her back-rider against a nearby tree when she hears the shouts nearby. Cayliss sprints toward the sounds and erupts from the brush in time to watch a man get impaled by a sword. The injured man falls to the ground gasping, while the man who did the impaling stares down at him smugly. There are two others close behind the smug thug, and they are standing around impatiently. One begins speaking in the flowy language Cayliss just recently learned. 

“Hurry it up Beloros, we don’t have time for you to watch the life slip from his eyes.” The grumpy silver eyed man pesters. “We have to grab that girl before she gets too far and we’re stuck out here all night looking.”

“And where would she go that we can’t follow hm?” The smug silver haired man retorts with a sly tone. 

Cayliss begins walking swiftly toward them just out of view as they converse, with only the dying man noticing her presence, giving her a wide-eyed look. 

“You forget she actually lives on this island. She would know where to hide and wait us out.” Grumpy replies.  
  
“Fine, today has been a good day for us after all. I suppose a little more toil couldn’t hurt.” The smug snake says.

“A little toil? We’ve been chasing them for hours. I swear if that little bitch doesn’t have the tightest cunt I’ve ever felt I’ll-

Grumpy man never gets to finish his sentence. The Breton woman is finally noticed by their quiet compatriot when he sees her from his peripheral vision, and spins around with a surprised gasp on his lips. She drives her short-sword up through his chin and out the top of his head, alerting the other two men, and painting her face red. With a bloody smile she pulls her sword back and advances casually toward them. She deflects the swing left from the smug man, and cuts through his legs with her skyforged-steel as if they were paper. 

What was once a man standing tall and smug, is now two halves of a man lying in the dirt with no more reasons to be smug. Swaying like a leaf away from Grumpy’s stab on her right, she removes his sword arm as quick as a blink, and then thrust her blade right into his crouch and upward until it reaches his black heart. He falls to the ground twitching in his death throes, and Cayliss dismissively wipes off her blade with his shirt sleeve.

After that bit of fun, the Breton walks over to the poor dying man to see about his condition. He stares at her with huge moon eyes, either out of shock of her display and arrival, or that’s just his I’m dying face.

_Hard to tell honestly._

He gasps and chokes up blood trying to speak, and points adamantly in a north-eastern direction, until Cayliss shushes him and tells him to conserve his strength. Hoping she has enough magicka to pull off another miracle, she summons the comforting golden glow to her hand and gets to work repairing his punctured lung and the bruises from a past beating. The moment she succeeds is signaled by the bout of deep inhales and exhales he takes. He looks at the Nirn native with complete amazement, before starting to babble about his daughter. 

“Be calm, I just patched you and that lung back together. You wouldn’t want to undo all my hard work now would you?” Cayliss speaks with an understanding tone, with a little bit of her usual roguish charm leaking in.

“I understand, just please.” The man begs emotionally. “Please, I have to get to my daughter. I know the place she would hide. I stayed behind but there were other men looking for her. I can’t- He stops speaking to let out a shudder. “I’ve already lost one daughter. I can’t lose her too. Please.” 

She nods at his words to show she understands, and she truly does. If it were any of her daughters being threatened with such things as slavery and rape, well then this island would sink. Kynareth herself would have to bring down the rain on Cayliss’ behalf; just as she did during the second Great War. It would be the only way to wash away the blood.

“I understand, truly.” She tells him tenderly. “I will help however I can, but first I need your help. Otherwise I will be next to useless.”

He nods and the Dovahkiin helps him to his feet and leads him back to her other ward; the back-rider. She blinks in bewilderment when he sees the girl and drops to his knees to hug her and bawl his eyes out in happiness. He calls out her name and its then that Cayliss realizes this is his ‘dead’ daughter. She ponders on the chances of such a coincidence, and shakes her head when she settles on 'close to impossible'. Just more of my strange luck, she thinks to herself.

“You saved her life. How? She was dead, we saw it.” He questions happily perplexed while running his hands across his daughters unmarred face.

“Not dead, just close to it. As long as there’s a flicker of life still in there, I can steal it right out of death’s grubby mitts.” Cayliss states proudly with a gentle smile aimed at the girl in his arms.

The man looks up at her with awe and lets out a weak “thank you”.

“Think nothing of it friend.” She says still holding that gentle smile before it morphs into a roguish one. “Now I believe you have another daughter to reunite with and I have another damsel to save. Shall we be off?”

He lifts his bundled up daughter into his arms and they set out in search of his younger daughter. 

While on the way he introduces himself as Innil, and tells her about the island she’s found herself on. Apparently it is called Bloodstone, and it is one of many islands of a chain called the Stepstones. It’s also a huge haven for pirates, slavers, and other bad sorts. He tells Cayliss of his village and how they are usually left alone by most because of trading, and if the island gets too busy they vacate their village just in case, and let the pirates and slavers take up residence until they’re done. This time they waited too long and one of the more ambitious slaver crews decided to take an interest. When she asks why the islands natives don’t form a militia and drive them out, he just scoffs and assures her it would never work. Cayliss thinks they’ve just lived with this reality for so long they think there is no other way.

She contemplates on what she’ll do when she establishes contact with Tamriel, and when she figures out how to travel to this realm and back. Maybe she’ll bring a legion here and claim these islands, kill and uproot the negative elements, allow peace to reign here for a change, and allow these worn down island people to prosper. Or maybe that’s just my dragon nature shining through; looking for an excuse to kill and dominate, Cayliss thinks self-deprecatingly.

The bearded man continues speaking undeterred. Innil asks her if she is from the Sunset Kingdoms, and at her questioning look he asks instead if she’s Westerosi, with the addendum that she has a strange accent. She shakes her head and replies that she is a Breton for the most part, from Tamriel, born and raised in Cyrodiil, but Skyrim is her home. He of course has never heard of any of those places, and she can only shrug her shoulders and say “I would be surprised if you did”.

Their conversations are interrupted sporadically as she encounters more slavers searching for islanders to make into victims. She would stop Innil and instruct him to hide while she took care of the scum of the earth in whatever way was most convenient. Sometimes she would hunt them from above in the trees or use the brush to hide herself and her kills. Other times she would simply walk right up in their midst and drive her sword into them, ignoring their novice defenses, and evading their laughable attacks. 

Eventually she runs into more survivors, with some she has to save from slavers, and others she just happened upon as they were fleeing. Little by little the group grows. Trust is hard to place in anyone after what they’ve been through, but after Innil introduces Cayliss and tells her of what she’s done they agree to follow her to safety for now. It helps that she heals their wounds and they see the evidence of her bringing back a woman they thought dead for sure. After all that and her easy slaughtering of any slavers she encounters, they start to look at her in awe, as if she was some kind of goddess. It’s ridiculous, and she can already feel a headache coming on from the possibility of all the future ass-kissing. Their reaction to her magic worries her though.

_Do they not have restoration magic here? Or any magic at all? Have I already marked myself as an anomaly?_ She ponders this with ice in her gut at the thought.

When they finally make it to the caves Innil spoke of, Cayliss hears the sounds of a girl shrieking and Innil takes off running, and she has to sprint past him to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. She comes upon the scene of a girl, about nine or ten, climbing a steep rocky hill, and she’s kicking out at the man climbing up behind her. There are two below looking up at the performance, unaware of the dragon in mortal form and the furious father approaching them like a storm. Innil reaches the climbing man, and snatches him away from his daughter, and onto the ground. The father mounts the surprised slaver and proceeds to start hammering away at his face with his fists. The other men witness the commotion and start to approach before Cayliss catches their attention by nailing one with a rock to the head.

“If you’re done hunting children and untrained villagers, and failing, do you care to try your skill against an actual warrior” Cayliss trills mockingly, while walking blithely toward them. “Unless of course you left your balls back on your ship. Or maybe you never had them to begin with.”

They both scoff at her claims to be a warrior, and throw easily ignored insults and threats around. The man on the left being particularly bold with his threats; claiming he’s going to fuck her cunt and her pretty cunt face until he gets bored of raping her, and cuts her throat. The Breton is intrigued by his audacious claims, and her eyes grow wide, and her mocking smile shifts into a bloodthirsty grin. Dead men make the most interesting claims, Cayliss thinks morbidly amused.

She reaches the man on the right first with her sword still sheathed, and she stands before him confidently, daring him to make a move. He reaches out for her hair, but instead his wrist is gripped and snapped like a twig, and she forces his arm behind in an unnatural angle. While looking the bold slaver across from her in the eyes, she snatches a dagger from the sash around her waist, and drives it into the back of his allies head. She drops his body like trash, and cocks her head at the man standing a few feet from her, as if to say “your move”.

Bold and foolish as ever, he steps forward with his sword out, and she taunts him with cutting words angering him into lashing out at her. She moves. Suddenly there is a long neat line in his gut, liberating his intestines from his body, and Cayliss simply kicks him over into the dirt. She turns her back and walks toward Innil and the corpse he’s still pounding away at, leaving the gutted man to writhe like a worm in the soil, and shout his agony to unsympathetic ears.

Placing her hand on Innil’s shoulder, the woman cast a simple calm spell to quiet his fury. The spells works of course, but Cayliss thinks his young daughter calling out for her “papa” calms him more than any spell ever could. The scene that starts to play out is a heartwarming one, but it makes her ache for her own children, even if it’s only been a day.

_Still this is a good thing; I've reunited a family and saved upwards of twenty people from slavery. That's a victory. Better than what it could have been. I have to remember that._

Looking over at the islanders, she sighs in relief and maybe a little well earned pride. A few children, some elderly folks, several young women, two young men, and one desperate father; those are the people she saved. There were many others lost in the village, killed or taken, but for now retribution will have to wait. The sun is setting and everyone looks exhausted and traumatized, so she decides it’s time to head back to the ruins with the islanders in tow, and plan her next steps.

_Maybe see about that huge pirate den the elderly lady was talking about._

“Shit.” Cayliss mutters under breath. She forgot to bring back a meal for Rislav. The people with me are going to need to eat too. With dawning horror, she realizes she won’t be getting much sleep tonight. She’s going to be hunting, and she has nothing but rocks and daggers to do it with. 

Looking up at the darkening sky, she can’t help but feel that a god somewhere is looking back at her, and laughing. 


	4. Who's Calling

Nirn 4E 222  
  
Planetos 296 AC  
  
Bloodstone  
  
Days since arrival-27  
  
An old wooden fort sits amidst gloomy woodlands, occupied by a rather large group of slave catchers. Most are sitting by the large campfire in the center of its grounds, with only a few diligent men among them patrolling the walls, peering out into night. The atmosphere is jovial as they celebrate their good fortune with wine and rum, ignoring the terrified women in bondage nearby. Their captives are either quiet as the dead, desperately trying to avoid drawing attention, or weeping for what they’ve lost and what they may yet have to lose. The unfortunate ones are snatched up and groped by the merry men around the fire, and any sign of resistance from the women are quelled with strikes across the face. One particularly eager man drags a girl away from the camp and towards a dark corner of the fort, with quick steps and a hungry look in his eyes.  
  
A tall moss covered tree looms over the forts walls like a specter, and atop one of its spindly limbs a shadow sits watching the beasts below her. Creeping her way across the branch with the balls of her feet, she drops onto the wall with a silent roll, freeing a steel dagger from her waist sash as she goes. By the time her body completes its motion and she’s standing again, the blade is already buried in the unaware man’s throat, and her other hand is grasping his mouth to keep him silent. She knows that the men below are too busy with their reveling to hear something so slight, but the few men patrolling the walls and grounds are a bit too alert to risk announcing her presence.  
  
With that in mind, she slowly lowers the lookout’s body to the ground and advances to the next. The shadow avoids the light the few scattered torches cast as best she can, while putting her blade through two more two more oblivious men, which clear the east side and leaves the west wall occupied by two men all by their lonesome. Rolling the corpse of her latest kill over and snatching the bow and quiver from his back. Before she decides to put it to use, she pulls on the string to test its tensile strength, and runs her palms over the limbs to feel for its quality.  
  
 _Not bad, but not good either. It will have to do._  
  
The shadow slings the quiver over her shoulder and walks to the edge of the wooden structure, where a shack lies below. After putting weight down on the boards of its slanted roof, she decides that it’s a little rotted but it should still hold her weight, and climbs atop. Her eyes lock onto her last two marks and she crouches, pulls one arrow into the string with another ready in her hand, and gently exhales.  
  
The moonlight and the flickering light of the campfire gives only the slightest illumination of the shadow stooped and motionless atop the shack, and the moment is almost peaceful as she breathes in the night air. The cool island breeze caresses her skin, and she adjusts her aim accordingly, moving the bow just a bit more to the right before releasing the arrow. The man on the western wall turns around to continue his patrol, and the arrow seems poised to miss, but the wind carries it left and into his throat. The impact pushes him, and he tumbles backward over the pointed wooden walls and into the undergrowth below. His compatriot a few yards away spins around at the noise and immediately notices the missing man. He opens his mouth to callout for his compatriot, but before the sound can escape his throat an arrow is buried in his eye, and his body drops likes it’s suddenly boneless.  
  
The shadow nods in satisfaction now that the advantageous positions can no longer be used against her, and the camp won’t be alerted until she elects to do so.  
  
 _This is still going to be tricky though. With all of them bunched up together I can’t dispose of them quietly, and I can’t just walk up to them and start cutting them down without risking the hostages._  
  
While running many scenarios through her head, her gaze falls on the man in the corner of the fort enjoying his…spoils. An idea starts building in the shadow’s mind even as she slides down the side of the roof and quickly but quietly approaches the man and the sobbing woman underneath him. With the bow in her left hand, her magicka builds in the palm of her right, forming a wispy ball of red, and a red line connecting to the woman that only she can see. Just a she reaches the man her spell is in full effect, and she drops the bow and snatches the man backwards with a firm hand over his mouth. Her back hits the ground and her legs wrap around him, entrapping him.  
  
Another blade is pulled from her waist, and she doesn’t hesitate to plant it into his side, before pulling it back and repeating the motion again and again, blindingly fast. She purposely misses vital organs, her time as a healer in her youth and her expertise in Restoration aiding her in that regard. His struggles grow weak until the hand covering his mouth begins to heat up, and a tiny flame appears in the palm of it. The shadow is unrelenting, as her legs clutch him harder refusing to let go. She slowly intensifies the magic flame, careful not to overdo it and make his head explode or something equally as absurd.  
  
His mouth and tongue burns, and his lips melt, creating a horrible muffled bubbling sound, and the foul smell of burning man arises. While looking down into the man’s wide agony filled eyes, the shadow remains utterly passive behind the cloth covering most of her face except for her red-brown eyes. Her gaze is filled with cold dark fury, and to him she must appear like a demon pulled from his worst nightmares.  
  
Eventually all of his muffled racket ceases, and so does his pitiful life, and in the place of his mouth and jaw lays a gaping hole of melted viscera. She releases him and rolls the corpse away, and pulls her dagger out of him to return it to her sash. She checks over the woman to make sure she is still under the effect of her spell, and is assured when she still has her eyes clenched closed, and continues her soft sobs. A simple illusion affects the woman’s mind and senses; to her the violation never ended. It’s cold and a bit heartless, but she can’t afford having the young woman give away the killer in the slavers midst. If she was still aware earlier, her display of intense violence towards her raper would have most likely drawn a loud reaction from her, and put all the other women at risk.  
  
 _I can’t take that chance. I can hate myself for it later._  
  
The shadowy figure prepares herself for the next step of her plan; grabbing the bow and all her arrows with one hand, and pulling magicka to the other. A golden light shines in her palm and she aims up and cast it high into the night sky. It might have caught a few of the slavers attention, but when it detonates in a benign but spectacular burst of light, they all look straight up in surprise and bewilderment. The Sunburst causes many to unconsciously separate from their captives and she knows now is the best opportunity she’s going to get.  
  
Walking forward towards her targets with bow in hand, she memorizes positions, angles, and numbers, before pulling the string back and letting her first arrow fly. Before any can even register the dying man another arrow embeds itself into an eye, then another through the throat, and another in the chest, a leg then the throat. Arrows fly from the dark, dispatching men like a scythe to wheat, and the slavers and their captives panic. Some try to flee or find cover, but she ends those notions quickly. The fools that try and rush her are shown their folly even faster, and when she’s close enough to the camp to emerge from the dark and into the light of the fire, she’s out of arrows. Eleven men are dead or dying, the island women are either on the ground trembling or staring in shock, and the remaining ten examples of living waste appear just as shocked.  
  
Dropping the bow, she summons a ball of light into her hand and sends it past the crowd, depriving them of vision. She’s already moving as the Magelight settles above the fire, floating and serving her well as a blinding light. The men grit their teeth and swear, with some covering their eyes and others squinting, desperately trying to see the enemy approaching rapidly. The shadow is among them almost instantaneously, the dagger in her hand cutting into them, and taking advantage of their weakness. She carefully avoids the women as they try to move away from the fight, and several times she has to push, trip, or drag them away from the slavers blind desperate swings.  
  
They try, truly, but it’s not enough, as the monster in their midst is a whirlwind of movement, and it’s more of a slaughter than a fight. She doesn’t give them a single moment to gather their bearings, tripping and pulling them into each other, spinning around them at speeds that leave them confused and disorientated. She presents a lightning-quick target that preys on her enemies inability to keep up with her speed and acrobatics, and one by one they fall like trees during a tempest.  
  
All but one lays dead, and the last has managed to grab a girl while she was lost in the mayhem. He holds a sword to her throat and threatens the shadow in a quivering voice, either rightfully assuming the shadow cares about their captives, or just desperately hoping.  
  
“Stay back! Or I’ll-I’ll kill her I-I swear! I’ll cu-t her throat like-like cake! Yeah like cake!”  
  
The shadow cocks her head in amusement at his pathetic threats, and looks down at her hands while thinking. Her left hand holds her steel dagger, while her right holds a cutlass she doesn’t remember taking from the enemy, but knows she must have sometime during the chaos. Nodding at the idea that comes to mind, she drops the sword and her fingers begin to twirl and map out a silent pattern at her side.  
  
Glancing back to the girl he has hostage, she can see the terror on her face as new tears flow down old tracks, and her body is still like death, not wanting to move an inch and risk opening her throat. The man holding her was already radiating terror at the presence of the magical night terror that easily butchered all of his companions, but it soon devolves into horror as the shadow’s spell takes hold. He sobs and shakes like a child as his view of her shifts into an evil spirit here to consume his soul and drag him down into a dark pit with no bottom.  
  
 _His fear of me was already substantial, but there’s nothing like a bit of Illusion to attack his psyche and prey upon his fear. Building upon fear is much easier than simply placing it there; their minds naturally fill in the gaps and design their own terror._  
  
The man drops to his knees, releasing the girl who immediately steps far away, and he continues to weep and begins begging for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, please! I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry. I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”  
  
His cries turn into broken screams, and he clutches his head while pleading to his mother and father, and to a wide range of gods that the shadow has never heard of. It leaves her thinking that perhaps she over did it, as his mind has clearly broken, possibly forever. Still she refuses to feel remorse for it. Maggots deserve more pity than these bastards, she thinks darkly.  
  
She drags her blade across his throat, ending his demented ravings. Not for his sake, but for the traumatized women watching. She sighs and looks over at the faces of the liberated, before pulling down the cloth covering her face and hair, leaving it around her neck and shoulders. Like a flicker of candlelight, Cayliss the Adventurer returns to the forefront and Cayliss the Shadow retreats. She casts a gentle gaze around at the women before speaking. “No worries, I’m here to rescue you. Well I’m not here just for that, but it’s on the list and pretty damn high.” The Breton’s casual tone clashes with her actions and demeanor from just a moment ago, and it leaves the women absolutely flabbergasted.  
  
Without giving them a moment to come back from the shock she walks over to the young woman under her illusion spell. The girl awakens from her nightmare after the Dragonborn lifts the spell, and a look of complete confusion plays on her face when she no longer feels the man atop her, in her. She opens her eyes and blinks several times at the stranger that stares down at her with a soft sad gaze. She looks over at the corpse of her rapist, who is thankfully face down, and pitifully whimpers out, “W-who are you?”  
  
“Someone who’s come to get you away from this place.”  
  
The young woman looks over the Breton’s shoulder and sees the women who have shared captivity with her, all looking wary but hopeful. Cayliss nearly stabs the girl when she lunges up at her, but relaxes when she puts her face into her chest and grips her vest, before releasing a river of tears. The Dovahkiin feels her heart break as the young woman sobs, her motherly instincts rush to the forefront and she feels the familiar stab of self-loathing at extending the poor things suffering for even a second more.  
  
The woman pleads with a thick wet voice, “I want go home, please get me out of here”. The Breton reassures her that she’s free and safe, and as soon as possible they will be leaving. Getting the woman to let go is a struggle, but eventually Cayliss manages to convince her. Still the woman trails behind her closely like a scared pup as she walks past the campfire and starts to climb the wall. When she reaches the top a voice rings out; “you killed them”? Cayliss wonders if its awe, fear, or satisfaction that she hears in her voice. One of the others answers the rhetorical question with a tone of dark triumph. “Like animals. She killed them like animals.”  
  
Climbing the walls the adventurer lets out a loud whistle using two fingers and waits. It starts slow, but men and women of the island begin pouring out from the woods, and look up at Cayliss for confirmation. “The way clear!?” She hears Innil shout from the group. Cayliss replies with a volume just under shouting. “Of course, did you doubt me?” The bearded bronze man walks closer until he’s standing right below the forts walls before giving his answer.  
  
“Doubt you? Never, a woman like you is beyond it.”  
  
Cayliss chortle at her friend’s honest praise, feeling flattered despite herself. “Charmer”, she whispers under her breath before her gaze and tones turns serious.  
  
“The slavers are dead but they had captures. A few women, from the island or one of the others I think. They’re scared, angry, and suspicious, and I don’t blame them.”  
  
The Dovahkiin stalls her report for a moment to give the man an imploring look.  
  
“Innil I probably don’t have to say this, but treat them with care. I think some of them were…used. I know that at least one of them was recently.”  
  
“We will treat them like kin. They are in a way, even if they didn’t come from the same village, or even the same island. We all suffer together here, but we will make sure they know their suffering is over.”  
  
“Good, good”, she says with a smile at the man and his understanding. Cayliss grabs hold of a nearby hanging branch and pulls herself up into the trees, before disappearing from sight. “I’ll play lookout”, her voice resounds from somewhere in the green.  
  
The Breton woman watches the surrounding woods carefully for any sign of trouble, as her companions speak with and reassures the newly liberated. Innil was not speaking falsely when he said they were practically family, as just the sight of other islanders gives the women a measure of comfort, and they fall in to step with the others as they get to work. Cayliss remains on guard as they strip the fort of anything useful, and gather things in the sacks and other containers they brought with them, before beginning to head out. Innil shouts up at the trees as they exit the gates, “we’re going back to the ruins, are you coming with us?”  
  
Cayliss ponders both her answer and the ruins as she stares at the horizon. The single moon of this realm is still hanging above, but fading as the ball of fire they call a sun rises, bringing dawn with it. That tingle she’s had insistently buzzing in her head all night has returned, signaling that Vo wishes to be summoned. Whatever he has to say is urgent considering how annoying and consistent the buzzing has been. It makes the decision much easier. With a sigh she descends the tree, mostly by free falling and grabbing branches to slow her descent as she goes. “Not this time”, Cayliss voices once she reaches the ground directly behind the group. They all just about jump out of their skins, and the Breton can’t help the giggles that escape her at the sight of their faces. Out of all the surprised shouts and remarks, one particularly loud exclamation stands out.  
  
“Water spirits dammit it all!” Innil’s voice rings out. The man had nearly leaped three feet into the air at her words, and spun around with wide eyes and the box under his armpit suddenly in his hands ready to be thrown. The Breton’s giggles turn into full body laughter at his reaction and the way he grumbles under his breath as he approaches her. The crowd parts for him and once he stands before her shaking form he expresses his displeasure.  
  
“Dammit woman! Are you incapable of making noise like us common people? Or are you just determined to scare the hearts out of our chests?”  
  
Cayliss’ body bends and she clutches her belly as her laughter becomes hysterical. She tries valiantly and eventually succeeds to look up at Innil’s grumpy face and speak through the hilarity.  
  
“Innil I- haha! Oh I swear I- heh. I didn’t do it- ha ha haaa. On-on purp-purpose.”  
  
He doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, and neither does the crowd of people behind him. They’ve all grown familiar with the foreign woman’s whimsy and strange sense of humor. The new additions among them just stare utterly mystified at the bizarre woman that butchered the slavers that held them, and is now acting as blithe and unconcerned as a child.  
  
“That’s thrice in two days that you’ve nearly killed me with one of your japes.” Innil says with a sigh.  
  
“I’m- heh, I’m sorry.”  
  
“You should take greater care Cayliss; if not for me, then for my poor daughters who will have to live without me after your humor puts me in the grave.” He lectures with a pout and feigned irritation.  
  
“Of course my friend, of course. How could anyone go on without you?” The Breton’s words are accompanied with a few breathless chuckles as the comedic mood simmers down. Innil harrumphs and tries to hide his amusement, but per usual Cayliss’ charm wins out and a reluctant smile slides up his face. The best part is she knows she’s won, and the small grin on her face says as much. Nodding in satisfaction she decides to return to business.  
  
“Before your heart nearly quit you, I was going to tell you that I can’t accompany you, not this time. I’m going to see about clearing that cove I scouted the other day, the one directly north.”  
  
 _The one north and the one nearest to my ship too._  
  
Innil looks a bit worried and his next words show it. “Alone? You told us that it was crawling with the fuckers. No less than half a hundred men, those are your words.”  
  
“I know what I said Innil, but you should understand by now I have more than a few tricks up my sleeve.” She demonstrates her point by shaking the loose flowing sleeve of her doublet like a madwoman, which causes a bottle of Lys white wine to fall out and onto the ground, along with a steel dagger, a random assortment of free city coins, and a small horn. Her audience stares. “Besides, I’m not planning on rushing in like a fool. I have far more tact than that.” The Breton mulls over the statement with a dubious look before amending it. “Well at least when there are hostages to consider.”  
  
Innil refusing to be distracted by the woman’s vague reassurances and absurd displays, decides to get to the heart of the matter. “I’m not saying you can’t give the bastards a beating, but you’re only one woman Cayliss. How will you do it?”  
  
The Breton woman sighs at the concerned insistent stare her friend is giving her, thinking how much easier it would be to dispel his fears if he knew the truth about her and just how formidable she truly is. She could tear through hordes of pirates and slavers, with or without the Thu’um. If she truly wanted too she could just walk right up to their hideaway and shout it down around them. She isn’t choosing a less direct approach because she thinks she’ll be defeated, but because it will cause the unnecessary deaths of the people she’s there to save.  
  
“Just, trust me alright? This isn’t anything I can’t handle.”  
  
The islander looks like he wants to protest and his worry doesn’t budge, but he decides to trust her to know her limits. He takes Cayliss’ hands into his and smiles at her. “Be safe,” he pleads. The Dovahkiin gives a smile back and fights the urge to say something flippant like “where’s the fun in that?” She settles on “as you command”, before strolling off into the woods with a backwards wave over her shoulder while whistling an upbeat tune.  
  
Xxx  
  
Nirn  
Skyrim  
  
Sydra doesn’t really understand just why she’s doing this, but she knows that she can’t ignore the call anymore. The day after her Mother slipped away in the night without any warning she started hearing this strange calling. She didn’t hear it per say, more of a feeling in her chest or to be poetic about it, in her soul. At first it started small, an irritant sensation that was easily ignored, but it grew every day, and her nights were filled with restless sleep as it began to haunt her dreams as well. Sydra was certain that something or someone was calling out for her, calling her to action.  
  
At her wits end, the young Dunmer girl told her sister Sofie in the hopes that she would understand it better. Her older sister sat patiently in her chair while she explained the strangeness, and only after Sydra was finished did she speak. She asked many questions and ran through a long list of possibilities as she paced around her room. Sofie stopped when she realized she’s was rambling, and admitted that she has neither the knowledge nor the expertise to devise a solution beyond conjecture. Ultimately they decided to visit Katja, or rather Archmage Katja, at the College in the hopes that she will be able to discern what is happening and sort it out.  
  
With a plan to head out in the morning they gathered the things they would need to make the journey and prepared for bed. Sydra pleaded to her eldest sister to let her sleep with her for the night while making her crimson eyes wide and childlike, and adopting a pout that often sways things in her favor. Sofie tried to be stern, and told her that she is far too old to need sleeping with her sisters or to pout like a child after sweets. As usual for the eldest and youngest of the family, Sofie gave in with an exasperated sigh and made room for her. The elf girl didn’t bother hiding her pleased smile, or even pretend to be ashamed at the underhanded tactics she used, as she jumped into bed and immediately stole all the blankets. The Nord woman rolled her eyes before stealing them back and distributing them equally amongst each other, used to her little sisters antics by now. It’s been said many times that out of all their mother’s children Sydra shares the most similarities with her, and unfortunately for Sofie that includes their unrepentant childishness and immature humor.  
  
Sydra for her part wouldn’t say that sleep was more peaceful that night, or that the calling ceased for the night, but it at least was far more bearable while wrapped in her sister’s long arms and listening to her loud snores that sound like a dying ogre.  
  
The morning didn’t bring the hope she expected, instead Vo, their mother’s ever loyal Daedric butler, arrived at the Manor to inform them about her whereabouts and delivered a letter written by her. Finding out that their mother had once again defied all reason and got herself stuck in a realm hidden away from even the divines? Well it certainly ended the relatively peaceful morning inside the manor. Sydra is grateful that most of her siblings have their own lives outside their family’s estate; otherwise there would have been bickering and shouting with no end. Thankfully only Sydra herself, her sister Sofie, and her brother Girin were there to receive the news, which allowed them to quickly reach a resolution. Well it was more of Sofie formulating a plan and Sydra and Girin going along with it.  
  
The plan was thus; Girin would fetch their closest siblings and bring them back to the manor, with a few couriers fetching the rest that are not so close by. Once everyone was back home Sofie planned for them to write a letter to their mother for Vo to deliver, and then she would get in contact with the Emperor so they could be appraised of what is being done about this new realm and the predicament their mother has found herself in. It wasn’t a bad plan; Sofie was always the diplomat and leader among them. Her eldest sister did not forget about Sydra’s troubles in the face of their mother’s either, as she urged the young dark elf to take their things out to the carriage and make sure their driver Olgus is ready to head out.  
  
Lydia, their loyal but sullen caretaker and protector, decided to travel with Girin to make sure he travels safe, obviously uncomfortable with letting him travel alone. Another reasonable motive for the grey haired Nord woman to have wanted to accompany the Bosmer was to keep him out of trouble. Her brother has a well-deserved reputation as a mischief maker after all, mostly because of his ability to turn the simplest of events into unbelievable displays of wild revelry.  
  
After Lydia and Girin left, Sydra and her sister entered their carriage without further delay. Sydra remembers Olgus humming a jolly tune as she watched the manor, their estate, and the village growing alongside it, disappear in the distance as they headed for Winterhold and its College. She doesn’t know why she watched so intently, but she had a strange feeling it would be some time before she saw her home again.  
  
It was five days into her journey before the calling got the best of her. Since they had left home it had grown worse, and at times she found herself doing things without her minds input. When they retreated from the carriage to camp for the night, or stayed at the local inn in one of the villages, Sydra would lose track of time and become cognizant again with Sofie cupping her face and looking at her in worry after she once again wandered off with a determined stride and a vacant look on her face. Her sister’s worry for her was plain on her face and in her actions. Dark bags were forming under Sofie’s eyes as she spurned sleep so she could instead watch Sydra, and refused to leave her youngest siblings side for even a moment, not even letting her pass water without her hovering around. With no sleep, the mounting concern for her sister, and the exhausting pace they began to travel at, the only thing keeping Sofie going were the potions she was gorging herself on, and her own willpower.  
  
Sydra felt like she was losing her mind, losing control of herself, like her conscious was slowly being dragged down into a pit to be locked away forever, and she felt like she was dragging her sister down with her. She decided she couldn’t take it anymore. Usually her sharp eyed sister would never fall for what she did, but she was too exhausted to notice the Dunmer pouring a potion out and filling it with mead. Using the spell her mother taught her when she was still toddling around and complaining about how gross leeks were, she subtly changes the taste of the mead to taste more medicinal and earthy before shoving it back in her sister’s satchel. That night her sister slept like a baby and Sydra wrote a small note to ease the hurt of what she was planning to do, before she jumped from the moving carriage as stealthily as possible and fled the scene.  
  
Then she walked…  
  
Leading her to where she is now. Letting the calling guide her feet as she enters deeper and deeper into the snowy pine forests of the Pale, she wonders just why she’s being beckoned. Sydra doesn’t have the faintest clue as to why the call chose her or where it’s beckoning her to, but she hopes for some answers soon instead of this mind numbing terror she feels.  
  
Stories like these hardly ever have good endings, she thinks remembering similar tales of people being lead to their deaths or worse.  
  
The only thing that gives her a modicum of peace is that the call gets less intense the more she travels, almost like it’s pleased that she’s moving closer to something, and doesn’t feel the need to interfere beyond a bit of urging.  
  
She sometimes stops to eat, drink, and rest, and other than a prodding feeling like an impatient child tugging on your clothes, the calling seems to be content at her pace. Sydra finds herself travelling through the rough Shearpoint mountain range close to the borders separating Eastmarch, the Pale, and Winterhold. The range isn’t easy to traverse by any means and the young Dunmer would much rather find an alternative route, but the call is annoyingly persistent that this is the path to take. Unfortunately the light of day is retreating and the cold darkness is quickly taking its place. I need to find some kind of shelter before I turn into an elf-sickle, she thinks to herself.  
  
The call picks up again in intensity just as the biting wind does, prodding her forward through the deep snow and up the steep rugged terrain. Sydra is desperate for some kind of sanctuary as the night quickly arrives in its entirety, bringing with it the glacial cold and night blizzards that both the Pale and Winterhold is notorious for. If not for the enchantments and fur lining in her clothes she would have collapsed by now, but it’s only a matter of time before the cold becomes too much. Her vision has been stolen as snow is carried by the howling winds. Her nose and pointed ears sting and burn as the wind bites at any exposed flesh it finds. Her fingers and toes feel like they may just fall off despite the boots and thick gloves covering them. Sydra is miserable and surrounded by treacherous mountain and a blizzard so fierce she can hardly hear herself.  
  
I suppose I was right and the calling has guided me right to my frosty death, the dark elf thinks bitterly. “Such a stupid stupid fool.” Her self-depreciating words are drowned out by the winds screaming and groaning around her, and she feels as if she’s inside a giant’s belly. Sydra does what she can to keep warm, pulling her hood further down and tighter to herself, and cupping her hands together to summon up a small fire within them. The call continues urging her forward, pleading for her to move forward. The Dunmer girl grits her teeth. “Haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you got what you wanted already?” She asks the entity with as much bitterness and sardonicism as a fourteen year old can manage.  
  
To Sydra’s surprise it seems to draw back as if struck, before gently, so very gently nudging her forward. With a huff under her breath she decides to let her feet guide her. Using the flames in her hands to keep her as warm as possible and as a light source she trudges on through the almost knee deep snow. Whatever the calling is it seems remarkably emotive, as it encourages her to keep moving onwards; past the terrifying blizzard, past the biting cold, past the grasping snow, and past the insidious steep rocky terrain underfoot. With one heavy step after another she ignores the numbing pain throughout her body and the exhaustion that seeps down into her bones, until she sees it. Shelter, salvation, a big bloody cave carved into the mountain, whatever you want to call it.  
  
Entering the cave as quickly as possible, Sydra sighs in relief at escaping the unbearable cold and nearly collapses when she realizes she actually managed to survive. There are so many stories in Skyrim, even recent ones, of people getting caught in blizzards and never being seen again. Even native Nords who’ve lived in Skyrim all there life can become victims of its temperamental weather. “Still I survived, at least for now. That’s all that matters.” She whispers under her breath.  
  
Eager to be further away from the hellscape outside, the girl travels deeper into the cave while searching for a good place to place to rest. Sydra can’t but notice that despite the cave being cover in ice and frost with just a few splotches of green, a heat seems to radiate around. This place is filled with steam as well, are there Dwemer ruins around? She ponders.  
  
 _It would be useful if so._  
  
The kind of heat that Dwemer ruins always seem to radiate would ward off the cold, and their might just be a decent place for her to rest.  
  
The thought of a nice warm bed distracts her enough to miss the large prints on the ground but not enough to miss the iron smell of blood in the air, or the collection of bones lying about. Keeping a flame in one hand she pulls her short-sword on her waist slowly from its scabbard, and prowls forward with light steps and wary eyes. The piles of viscera and bones only get more common as she walks deeper into the bowels of the icy cavern, and her nerves are thin enough to rest on a daggers point. The Dunmer hopes desperately that whatever lurks here is easily within her ability to kill.  
  
Sydra hesitates when she comes across a narrow path leading downward and into an abyss of foreboding darkness. Perhaps I’m being over dramatic, she thinks to herself while reluctantly putting one foot in front of the other and continuing on. The Dunmer contemplates letting go the small flames in her palm in favor of a better light source, but she doesn’t won’t to do away with the warmth it provides. Instead she summons up as much resolve as she can and summons up the resolve to push on.  
  
The path feels like it goes on forever, likely because every moment she’s within the darkness and surrounded by the suffocating stony walls feels like a waking nightmare only Vaermina could devise. The sound of distant hisses, chittering sounds, and clicking steps doesn’t help the piercing anxiety in her chest, and neither does the powerful roar that follows.  
  
The path begins to wind around in a spiral pattern before splitting in two directions, and the elf girl ponders just which she should take. There’s no indication of either direction being a more reasonable option. “Hmm I suppose I’m leaving it to chance then. I’ll take….left.”  
  
Before Sydra can take the first step she hears loud thundering steps from the very direction she picked. She mentally curses the blizzard outside as well as the distant noises that prevented her from sensing the threat until its right upon her. Stepping into the right path she embraces the rock wall to hide her profile as best as possible, she lowers the intensity of the flame spell until it’s less than a flame flickering on the wick. The odd lumbering footfalls grow heavier as they get closer and closer to Sydra, and she hopes desperately that she won’t be noticed as she tries to squeeze her slim body into a too-small crack in the wall.  
  
Suddenly the steps stop as they reach the fork, and she can hear and smell it’s heaving breath. The creature, because it’s definitely not man or mer, must be looking right at her or at least in her direction, as she can now feel its hot breath against her face. The miniscule flame sputters out just like she wishes she could. Slowly, so very slowly, she creeps backwards away from whatever monster stands within kissing distance of her. Sydra feels like the musical score of war drums that’s playing in her chest will give her away if the small flicker of light in her hand didn’t. Please, please be blind, or at least dumb as rocks, she pleads within her mind.  
  
 _No elf here, no poor victim for you, absolutely not. It was all in your head you see. No flame and no elf. Now please just go back to doing scary monster things._  
  
Sydra wants to cry as her death lumbers toward her to instead of continuing on its way. She continues to step back while contemplating if she should just try sprinting away, unfortunately it doesn’t matter as her next step backward sees her foot slipping and she falls on her back with an oof. Her heart stops completely as she stares up at the huge silhouette that stands hunched above her. Deciding that there’s no avoiding it, but refusing to die whimpering like a scared little girl, she leans up with one hand behind her and summons a huge ball of flames to the other.  
  
There looking down at her, illuminated in the surrounding darkness by magical fire, is the biggest frost troll she’s ever seen. It easily touches the ceiling of the cave with its shoulders and it has to bend its neck to fit. “Oh… um… hello there.” Sydra greets the beast with wide eyes and a weak timid smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to end this chapter early or else it would have been huge, like easily 10k plus words. Also I didn't want to risk getting stuck on it for too long, it already took me longer than I thought it would. Hope you guys enjoy. If you have any questions ask and I'll answer so long as it doesn't spoil anything. Also let me know what you think of Sydra and having her as a second protagonist.


End file.
